Sunday, May 7, 2017

Death's Honesty (29)

Rose
McGillicutty's agile fingers eased the cervical collar off Blow's
neck and set it on a wooden chair near the bed. They were sitting on
the bed when she did this. With the collar off, she reached up and
gently massaged the muscles and tendons in his neck and shoulders. A
purr started in his throat.

“This
feel good?” The question was unnecessary, but it enabled her to
complement with the calm confidence in her voice what her hands were
doing to his body. The purr climbed in affirmation. “Say if it
hurts,” she cautioned. “You've sure got some knots, Darlin'.
Didn't you say they gave you a muscle relaxant?”

“I
think one of the nurses said that. Guess it didn't work, huh?”

“Where
does it hurt the most?”

“In
back. Whenever I move my head. Worse when I try to rotate it.”

She leaned in and kissed the
back of his neck. “I can smell that collar on you. Smells
hospitally. You don't have to wear it to bed, do you?”

“Go
easy
on you? Have I ever gone easy on you, mister? Oh, well, those first
few times, but they don't count.”

Blow, grinning, started to
turn his head, then hunched his shoulders and squinted against the
pain. The grin rode his memory back to his junior year at Leicester
High School where Rose, brand new in the teaching game, tutored some
of her male algebra students after hours in her home. Blow was one of
them, and algebra only one of the tutored courses. Soon run out of
town on the rumor express, she disappeared, to return quietly several
years later and begin writing novels and running a confidential
boutique bordello in her home. Blow knew she was back when he
discovered in his mail a rose-scented calling card. As information,
besides the scent, the cream-colored card provided only a tiny
embossed red rose in one corner, a phone number, and a street
address.

Seeing her, smiling her
half-shy-half-sly smile, surprised and warmed him when he found her
waiting in the hospital lobby. She started to spread her arms as if
to hug him, then reached above the collar and ran the tips of her
fingers along the stubble on his jaw. Her smile had gone more to the
shy side.

“I
was afraid you'd be in a wheelchair.” Her voice was soft, tone
confidential.

Blow laughed. “I was afraid
I'd be on a gurney. It's only a sprain. Hurts like hell, though.”

“Nah,
more like...kinda loopy, I guess. Or I probly would
be in a chair. Thanks for coming, Rosie. How'd you find out?”

The sly reasserted itself. “I
have my sources.”

She hugged him, then tugged on
his arm, nodding toward the door. “I'll put some soup on. Maybe
some cabernet. Get you comfortable.”

Stepping into the night chill
braced Blow, sharpened his senses. The afternoon clouds had vacated
the sky, now a distant dark broken only by a smattering of cosmic
glitter and a brilliant crescent moon. She led him to her Renault and
opened the passenger door. She held a hand lightly on his head to
guide it from bumping the frame during his awkward climb in.

“Smells
rosy in here,” he said, as she backed the car out of its slot. “My
inner wolf wants to howl.”

“Your
inner wolf needs some food. First, anyway.” She declined his
request to drop him off where he'd left his truck at Mundaign's:
“You're
too woozy, Darlin'. Don't want you in any more trouble tonight.”
They decided he could get the truck in the morning, and she took him
home. By the time she'd parked in her driveway he had brought her up
to speed on his situation. She already knew about the kids, but
hadn't heard of Chris Curtis's murder. She knew of Mundaign, that he
was researching a book on local history, but she hadn't made the
connection between his interest in Blackbeard and the murders.

“Do
you think he was involved? I mean, maybe he shot them as trespassers?
Some kind of get-off-my-lawn nut, you think?”

“Anything's
possible at this point, Rosie, but my client was there, holding a
pistol. I think he's innocent, but it sure as hell doesn't look good
for him at the moment.”

“His
parents are in Europe?”

“Should
be here tomorrow. I might have better luck talking to the kid when
he's out on bond. He's scared to death in there now.”

Several windows beckoned with
curtain-softened light as Rose's modest brownstone came into view.

“I'm
not interrupting anything, am I?” Blow knew the question was
unnecessary but it'd become something of a habit, in this instance
recognizing that Irma, Rose's secretary, who had taken on a discreet
male clientele of her own, might be so occupied when they arrived.
Rose found this arrangement convenient as she tapered off her own
direct involvement in the entertainment end of her enterprise. Her
success as a novelist was simply taking up too much of her time.

“I
don't think so. Irma's probly busy proofing The
Would-be Squire.
It's almost done. My best yet, I think. She might feel like a little
party break, though, if you're still up when I'm through with you.”